Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (9 page)

‘Sorry, love. Not my problem.’ The steward grinned smugly and waved the ticket in front of her face. ‘It’s a dud.’

‘Okay, okay, so what’s it worth?’

‘Not even the paper it’s printed on, darlin’.’

In normal circumstances, Sandra would have vehemently objected to being called “darling” and “love”, but on this occasion it was essential she kept the guy sweet.

‘No, I mean how much do you want?’

‘Eh?’ His grin vanished.

‘How much do you want to let me in? Twenty cover it?’ She began to reach in her pocket for her already much-depleted purse.

‘You trying to bribe me, lady?’

‘Listen, it’s really important that I get in, and I’m willing to pay whatever you—’

‘Bugger off, will you?’ He looked over her shoulder at the next person in the queue. ‘Ticket, please.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Sandra was at a loss what to say or do next and peered past the intransigent steward at the throng of people milling around beyond the barrier. She was pondering the idea of making a run for it and losing herself amongst them when she noticed a black and tan mongrel trotting in her direction from about thirty yards away.

It was the dog from the hotel, she was certain of it, and the guy it seemed to be with looked a lot like the one she had bumped into on the stairs. It was hard to tell though because much of his head was obscured by the hood of his fleece, but he was clearly in a hurry and making for the exit.

She pushed and jostled her way back through the incoming queue and reached the end just after he passed the small group of stewards who were making sure nobody sneaked in the back way. She increased her pace to catch up with him, and when she was within range she opened her mouth to call out but immediately closed it again as a shortish man in a tan-coloured leather jacket came up behind her quarry and placed a hand on his shoulder.

The guy in the fleece turned to face his assailant, and she caught a glimpse of his rabbit-in-the-headlights eyes. Trevor Hawkins. No doubt about it. She edged her way closer so she could hear what was being said.

‘…few questions,’ she heard the man in the tan jacket say when she came within earshot.

‘Er, what about?’ Trevor looked like he was about to crap his pants, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. She noticed he was holding his right arm rather awkwardly across his stomach as if he had something concealed inside his jacket and was preventing it from falling out.

‘It might be better if we went somewhere a little more private. We need to wait for my… friend though. He’ll be along any minute.’ So saying, he raised his wrist to his face and spoke into his sleeve. ‘Subject apprehended. Outside arena entrance.’ He cocked his head to one side as if straining to hear something, and Sandra spotted the thin curly wire which ran from his right ear and disappeared inside his jacket collar.

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry actually,’ said Trevor.

‘Won’t keep you long, sir.’ The man in the tan jacket smiled without a hint of sincerity and transferred his attention to the dog, which was staring up at him and whining. ‘This your dog?’

‘Yes.’ The voice sounded weary.

‘Cute. Does he bite?’ He tentatively held out the back of his hand towards the dog, who eyed it suspiciously.

‘He’s a she, and no she doesn’t,’ Trevor said and then added, ‘…usually.’

‘I see.’ He withdrew his outstretched hand and pretended to check his watch.

‘Who are you anyway?’

Sandra could see that Trevor was becoming increasingly agitated and possibly even a little braver at the same time.

‘Oh I’m sorry. Didn’t I introduce myself?’ His words were heavy with mock politeness. ‘Patterson’s the name.’

‘What are you? Police?’

‘Something like that, sir.’

‘So do you have any identification?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Patterson but made not the slightest move to produce anything. ‘And while we’re at the introductions stage, you are…?’

‘Er… Wolf. – Stephen Wolf.’

Patterson smirked. ‘In sheep’s clothing, eh?’

There was no response.

Just then, three men wearing nothing more than the minutest white skirts-cum-loincloths, sandals, and plastic laurel wreaths on their heads appeared from nowhere and advanced towards Patterson. Each carried an elaborately shaped plywood bow and arrow, and all of them were in their early to mid forties and of varying degrees of unattractiveness. Even so, they moved elegantly as if in slow motion with every step exaggerated and precise. Pouting theatrically all the while, they surrounded their prey and stared at him with the intensity of a hunter.

Sandra watched as the oldest and chubbiest of the three crouched down in front of Patterson and ever so slowly drew himself upright, lingering momentarily over the crotch area, until their faces were only two or three inches apart. The other two Cupids slid to either side of their target and brought their own faces to within the same distance.

For a few seconds, they stood motionless as they gazed at their victim, their bows and arrows now pointing at the ground. Then, and at exactly the same instant and without any visible cue passing between them, they each began to caress his hair and face with tender sensuality.

A small crowd started to gather, and Sandra moved closer to maintain her uninterrupted view.

By now, Patterson’s body was completely rigid, his head tipped backwards and his teeth bared in a fixed grin which managed to convey both embarrassment and annoyance. If he was trying for “Hey, I’m just an ordinary festival guy like the rest of you and isn’t this fun”, he’d failed badly.

The three Cupids rotated around him, and their caresses ventured steadily downwards from his head to his shoulders and beyond, a face always directly in front of his own, eyeball to eyeball and pout to grimace. There was a movement at the edge of Patterson’s mouth, and Sandra could just make out the words, ‘Piss off, you arse bandits, or I’ll nick the lot of you.’

Apparently she wasn’t the only one to have heard him, and someone in the crowd shouted out, ‘Jeez, mate. Relax, will ya? They’re only having a bloody laugh.’

Patterson’s remark seemed to be a not unexpected response for the Cupids, and they immediately intensified their efforts. Still stroking him with their hands, they proceeded to rub their entire bodies against his in an up and down motion, sometimes with their backs and sometimes with their fronts. Without resorting to unseemly violence, Patterson was locked to the spot.

The crowd, which had tripled in size by now, was roaring with laughter and encouragement, and Sandra also found herself clapping her hands and laughing like a loon until she suddenly remembered why she was there. She felt the panic rise from somewhere deep inside her as she turned towards where Trevor had been standing, knowing full well that she’d see an empty space.

‘Shit.’

As she set off, she was aware from her peripheral vision that Patterson tried to do precisely the same thing but instantly fell headlong in the dirt with an almost naked Cupid hugging his ankles.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘Come on, Milly. Shift.’

Trevor was almost sprinting towards the camper van when it finally came into view, and he glanced back to see that Milly was lagging behind and clearly intent on seeking out additional sources of food.

His hand trembled, and he struggled to get the key in the lock. He took a few deep breaths and concentrated… Click. Milly was beside him now and leapt onto the driver’s seat the moment he opened the door. Trevor unceremoniously bundled her over to the passenger side as he climbed in and fired up the engine. He reached down to release the handbrake and then jumped at the sound of a sharp tapping noise on the glass to his right. So swiftly did he turn that he felt a sudden but fleeting spasm of pain in the back of his neck.

The woman’s face seemed familiar. She was smiling, but her eyes gave him the distinct impression the smile was far from genuine. She rotated her index finger to indicate that she wanted him to wind down the window, and he reluctantly obliged.

‘Well, well. Fancy bumping into you again,’ she said. Milly stared at her and wagged her tail. ‘Hello, doggie.’

He remembered now. It was the woman he’d collided with on the hotel stairs.

‘I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe you have something that doesn’t belong to you.’ The smile remained, but her eyes widened as she arched an eyebrow.

Trevor clutched at his chest, and he felt the bulge of the package through the soft material of his fleece.

‘Oh dear. Touch of heartburn perhaps?’ The smile evaporated, and she held out her hand, palm upwards.

Heart
attack
was more likely, thought Trevor, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He took the tag of his jacket zip between his forefinger and thumb and, millimetre by millimetre, pulled it down with such slow deliberation that he might have been performing a striptease.

‘Today would be good.’

She was obviously getting impatient, and he was about to rip open the rest of the zip when a man’s face loomed over her shoulder. Trevor’s hand froze, and his jaw dropped. He could see the gun reflected in the window of a nearby car.

‘Oh yeah,’ said the woman with a scowl. ‘Someone behind me, is there? Well if you think I’m going to—’

‘I wouldnae turn round if I were ye, hen.’

Trevor’s focus was drawn to the heavy scar on the man’s cheek, the chunky gold earring and the long black hair which was scraped back so tightly into a ponytail it must have been impossible for him to blink. Definitely not the sort of person he’d want to meet on a dark night in some deserted alley. Come to that, not the sort of bloke he’d want to meet in broad daylight in the middle of a busy festival car park either.

‘I see ye have something for me.’

Trevor stared down at the corner of the padded, green Jiffy bag protruding from inside his jacket. Oh God, how he wished he’d never set eyes on the bloody thing, that he’d never checked into the hotel, that he hadn’t broken the toilet lid, that he’d—

‘Don’t piss me about, pal. I’m nae in the mood for playing games. Giz it here.’

He edged the woman to the side, and his left hand reached in through the open window. The right hand followed, and this one was holding a rather heavy looking gun, which was aimed directly at his head. It was at this point that Milly apparently decided she wasn’t at all keen on this intrusion, and she started barking at him like a deranged Rottweiler.

‘Shut yir racket.’ The muzzle of the gun shifted a few degrees, away from Trevor’s head and towards the dog’s.

What happened next was almost too quick for Trevor to take in. The woman’s arm snapped upwards and caught the guy on the elbow so sharply that the gun was now directed at the roof of the van. At exactly the same moment, her hand whipped up from the small bag slung at her hip and shot a fine spray straight into his face. He roared in pain and staggered backwards, clutching at his eyes, then tripped and fell heavily to the ground, dropping the gun in the process.

Trevor grabbed at the handbrake, but before he could even engage first gear, the woman appeared in front of him through the windscreen. He watched the movement of her lips as they made some kind of “tut tut” sound, but he took even more notice of the gun which had been pointing at his head only a few seconds earlier. She waved it back and forth as if wagging an admonishing finger and then aimed it at his chest.

He eased his foot from the accelerator pedal, and she edged around to the passenger door and climbed in. Milly, who had stopped barking and was looking faintly bemused by this whole chain of events, obligingly and uncharacteristically jumped down from her seat and scuttled off into the back.

‘Drive.’ The woman’s voice was calm and assured.

Trevor’s palm hadn’t left the gear shift, and he yanked it backwards as he continued to stare wide-eyed at the pistol. He was beginning to turn away when a powerful hand slammed onto the steering wheel. Crimson eyes blazed in at him through the still open window, tears streaming down the contorted features.

There was a dull thud and a faint crunching sound as the woman brought the butt of the gun crashing down onto the back of the intruding hand. It vanished instantly to the accompaniment of an anguished shriek of extreme pain.

‘Drive!’

Trevor let out the clutch far too quickly, and the van lurched forward, almost flattening a shortish guy in a tan-coloured leather jacket, who just managed to fling himself out of the way.

‘Shit,’ said Trevor, glancing into his wing mirror to see the man he had almost killed lose the battle to stay upright and go sprawling onto the ground. ‘Wasn’t that—’

‘Your policeman buddy?’

‘Patterson.’

‘Whatever.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Trevor could see she was still aiming the gun at him. He felt an unpleasant disturbance deep in his guts, and it wasn’t because all he’d had to eat in the last twenty-four hours was a handful of biscuits.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A light breeze rippled the material of the patio umbrella, and a sudden gust threatened to blow the notebook off the slatted wooden table beneath. Maggie Swann made a grab for it and caught it just in time. So far, there had been very little that was worth writing down. Doyle had been reticent on the phone to put it mildly, but now, face to face, he was honing his blood-out-of-a-stone act to perfection. For some minutes, Logan had been drumming his fingers on the edge of the table – a sure sign that his patience tank was running on empty.